


Our Flowers

by Vicxx



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-08-27 23:27:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16712020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vicxx/pseuds/Vicxx
Summary: Every wizard receives a magical tattoo at age 17; a symbol of their soulmate— namely, a symbol of something that the soulmate loves truly and deeply.





	1. Chapter 1

Harry looked around the Great Hall with a sense of surreal wonder— only four months ago, it had been a warzone, and now...it was almost the same.  
Almost.  
The gaps where friends had sat, the soot on the stone, the whistling of wards around the windows, all reminded him that nothing was the same, not anymore.  
Hermione, seeing the same things he did, gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, whilst Ron wasted no time stuffing his face. With his appreciation for food, it was no surprise that the mark on Hermione had shown up to be gingerbread. It was...sappy, but it made her happy.  
Thinking of the soulmarks, Harry’s smile fell some as he absently scratched at the place over his heart, where his new burden sat.   
Seamus and Dean joined them at the table, giving grateful smiles and launching into anything but the war.  
What they _did_ bring up didn’t make Harry feel better.  
“Seamus, what is on your neck?” Harry followed her eyes just in time to see something retreat below the neckline of the irish man’s shirt.  
Seamus grinned, pulling the shirt away to reveal a paint palette and brush, which caused Dean to blush, “The soul marks came in last week.”  
Hermione congratulated them, but both her and Ron’s eyes strayed over to Harry, who seemed to have hunched down at the mention of marks.  
“So Harry, mate, what’s yours?” Seamus asked tactlessly, earning a glare.  
“He doesn’t want to share.” Ron said, and more of the focus shifted towards him— at least, overtly. The majority of the table had already been staring at him, or subtly eavesdropping.  
“What’s wrong with it, Harry?” Neville asked, leaning forward from Hermione’s right to see Harry.  
“Nothing’s wrong it-”  
“Are you embarrassed? Does Harry have a crush?” Seamus teased, wagging his eyebrows playfully, and Harry’s face flamed.  
He was saved from having to answer by the hush that fell over the hall as Mcgonagall stepped up the podium, and the students keenly felt Dumbledore’s absence; for Harry, it was a gut punch.  
“Welcome back, everyone.” Mcgonagall kept her composure, but the emotion in those words computed perfectly, “The start of a new year. A new era. The castle is still standing, even after the past horrors.” Mcgonagall’s eyes found the returning students, her smile sad, “We are still standing.”  
The hall broke into applause, but Harry managed to drift after that. It was mostly the pleasantries, and the sorting. His eyes strayed to the Slytherin table.  
Not many of the slytherins had come back. The table was...desolate. But sitting alone, seemingly ostracised from the others, was Draco Malfoy. His hair was longer than it had been at the trials, and it hung into his face. His eyes were unfocused, the grey cloudy as he started at the table. He was hunched over his plate, hands clenched in front of him. He looked...haunted.  
Harry snapped out of it as the conversation ratcheted up around him, and he realised that the sorting had ended, along with Mcgonagall’s speech— he felt guilty for not listening.  
“So Harry, any reason _why_ you don’t want to share?” Dean asked, gesturing to where Harry’s hand had strayed to his chest, scratching absently.  
Harry jerked his hand away, flushing, but didn’t know how to answer.  
“It’s not someone who…?”  
“No. No!” Harry said suddenly, realising why they had gotten quiet— it wasn’t unheard of for the soulmate to be someone who had died, and with the war, it was even likely.  
“So you _do_ know who it is,” Ron said, and Harry sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face.  
“Drop it, Ron,” he said tiredly, and to his surprise the ginger did. The topic turned to Quidditch, to studies— to everything normal teens should talk about it.  
They spent the rest of dinner like that, but Harry’s eyes kept straying to Malfoy— the blond wasn’t eating, merely staring at his plate. He was so thin…  
Hermione nudged him, and he ripped his gaze away, cheeks flushed. What had they been talking about?  
“What?” he said dumbly, and Ron repeated himself.  
“Do you think we’ll get to play Quidditch?” Ron said, glancing over his shoulder to figure out what Harry had been staring at.  
“I don’t see why not,” Harry acquiesced, and was sucked into the conversation, determinedly not looking at the Slytherin table.  
Mcgonagall stood again, presumably to send them to their respective common rooms, “Now that we have eaten our fill. It is time to retire for the night. Those of you who quality as “8th year students”, please remain seated.”  
Those around him broke into curious murmurs as the younger years filed out, until it was just the returning students remaining. Mcgonagall called them up to stand with her in a group, giving them each a grateful smile.  
“It is so good to see you all here,” _alive_ was left unspoken, but heard nonetheless. “Given the...unique, circumstances of your being here, the other professors and I thought it prudent that you should be given unique...privileges, as it were.”  
The murmuring paused again with the raising of her hand, “You are all of age; adults. As such, we see it fit to treat you as adults. You will be living in a separate dorm room of your own; you have grown beyond your houses, and now you shall grow together. This year, we are giving you an environment to grow past the war, to heal those older wounds. You will be rooming in pairs, rather than by gender, and your curfew will not be until midnight on weekdays….and there is no curfew on the weekend.”  
Seamus crowed, earning a quiet round of laughs, but mostly the group was nervous— who would they be rooming with?  
“However, if any alcohol, illegal substance, or dangerous item is found in your possession or on the grounds, you will also be _punished_ as adults.” That scolding halted Seamus’ schemes.  
“Your new common room is located on the fifth floor, beside the painting of Sir Cadogan, and your password is ‘Unity’.” With that, she bade them goodnight.  
From there, it was a race to see the rooming assignment, which was posted in the common room.  
Seamus was already planning parties, nights in Hogsmeade, and a litany of other debaucherous schemes.  
Harry was mostly just tired and queasy— who would he have to share with?  
Their common room was simple enough. Not adhering to any house colour, the decorations were teal and violet, with cream and coffee brown plush sofas near the fire. There were multiple hallways breaking from the main room, presumably to their rooms. There, on the large bulletin, was the rooming list, and it was crowded immediately. With victorious cries, or cries of lament as people found their roommates.  
Harry didn’t want to know.  
There was a sudden hush in the room, broken by a string of profanity, and the crowd backed off to reveal Malfoy, who looked hacked off; who had he gotten.  
That was soon answered. He turned, throwing a sneer at Harry, before stalking down one of the corridors. Harry approached the board, and saw in Mcgonagall’s writing:  
 _“Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter.”_  
Harry’s face flamed, and he gulped.  
Malfoy was his roommate.  
Bollocks.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry, after much stalling in the common room, slipped into his room with a heaping dose of apprehension. _Please be asleep please be asleep please be—_  
He wasn’t asleep.  
Malfoy was sitting in one of the four poster beds in the room, reading, his only acknowledgement of Harry’s existence being the clench of his fingers on his book.  
Harry was bright red, very aware of the mark on his chest, of the fingers reaching up to scratch up at it, and he made a concentrated effort to act natural.  
He made it two steps, then tripped over his trunk. Well, there goes that plan.  
He landed with a thud and cursed as his knee began to throb. Malfoy’s wand came out and Harry tensed, but he only cast a silencing charm around himself, before continuing to read.  
So he was going to ignore Harry. That suited him just fine.  
He grabbed clothes and his soap, watching Malfoy as he scampered to the washroom— thankfully, each room had an adjoining bath, so Harry could actually go shirtless somewhere.  
He took off his shirt, the fabric sticking to him from spending too many hours on his body.  
He shook it out and dropped it, leaning over to start the water, and taking the moment to study his soul mark for the first time that day.  
It was...well, it was beautiful. The creamy narcissus flower bloomed outward slowly, it’s petals spreading slowly across his chest, nearly obscuring the deep violet pansy, until it parted two of the petals, coming forward and blooming in the light; the petals waved back in forth, in time with Harry’s heartbeat. He let his fingers trace the fine edges of the petals, the deep, golden centres of the flowers, until the steam had begun to fog the mirror.  
He finished stripping down and stepped under the hot water, sighing as it eased aching muscles, and made short work of his routine, before towelling off. He dressed in trackies and, his skin whining, another t-shirt. He preferred to sleep in as little clothing as possible, but with his _roommate_ — he wasn’t risking it.  
He slid out of the washroom, hoping Malfoy had gone to sleep— nope. He was still reading, and his lack of reaction meant the charm was still up.  
Harry brushed his teeth and got himself settled, dreading trying to sleep tonight, before he froze momentarily— he talks in his sleep! Ron’s bitched about it continuously over the years; what if he lets something out?  
Harry cast a silencing charm on his curtains— there, that should hopefully keep his mumbling to himself.  
He pulled them shut, and laid on his back, staring at the top of the four poster— he was exceptionally aware of the blond sitting a scant few feet away, the light from his lamp casting a warm glow over Harry’s curtain. He rolled over to his side, facing the wall, and tried to think of anything else.  
He was in for a long night.  
Hours later, he shot awake, cry on his lips from the nightmare, and wand in hand— and a smouldering hole in his curtains.   
Harry sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face as he repaired the curtain, before pulling it aside to get water.  
He froze like a deer in headlights— Malfoy was still awake. The lamp had burnt out, but a lumos hung over Malfoy’s head, illuminating his reading. The bruises beneath his eyes looked larger, more ominous in the light, and he looked to be struggling against sleep.  
He realised Harry was looking at him, and glared daring Harry to say something.  
Harry decided that this wasn’t the battle for tonight, and just went into the wash room, getting a glass of water and splashing some over his face.  
Padding back into the main room, he studied Malfoy— his hair was in disarray, as though he had been pulling at it, and the stack of books beside him implied that he intended to read all night.  
“Stop staring.” Malfoy said, shocking Harry out of his reverie, and he coloured.  
“Why aren’t you sleeping?” Harry asked, curiosity getting the better of him.  
“Why aren’t you?” Malfoy countered, eyes not leaving his book.  
Fair point, Malfoy doesn’t want to talk about it. Harry sighed, getting back into his bed and pulling the curtains shut again, the silencing charm falling back into place. He faced the wall, mind racing too fast for him to fall asleep again— why wasn’t Malfoy sleeping?  
When dawn finally came about, Harry jerked his face away from his pillow, drool drying on his chin, and an uncomfortable reminder that he was 18 year old boy throbbing against his stomach.  
His face heated— maybe Malfoy had already left? He peeked an eye around his curtain, to see the Slytherin slumped against the wall, his back twisted awkwardly, and his book slack in his hands. He must’ve finally nodded off. If Harry was quiet he might make it to the wash room without getting caught. Then he could just deal with his little problem in there and no one would be any wiser.  
Then he managed to trip on his trunk, _again._  
Malfoy was awake in an instant, wand up and pointed at the door, eyes shot through with a lack of sleep and his entire body quivering. Harry froze, eyeing the wand and not daring to move. The blond registered that no one was in the room, just Harry, and his arm dropped, but the glare he speared Harry with was positively glacial. Harry took the hint and scrambled to the washroom, deftly using his robes to hide his bits.  
Once in the safety of solitude, he relaxed, but noticed that his erection had flagged— damn, though probably for the better. He shrugged out of his sleep clothes, the flowers on his chest opening in the light, reminding him of his impossible situation. He sighed, resolving to ignore it until caffeine has been had.  
Once dressed with brushed teeth and— he wasn’t going to lie and say he tried with his hair— he ducked out into his room again to get his bag. Malfoy was up and dressed, back to him, his hair much neater than it had been.   
Harry didn’t know what to do; should he greet him? Ignore him? Wait for him?  
Malfoy turned, and Harry realised he’d been caught staring again, and he looked away, face heating as he grabbed his bag and hefted it over his shoulder.  
In that glimpse of Malfoy’s face, Harry had seen...sadness, resignation, and _fatigue_. Malfoy had to be trashed from lack of sleep, but he didn’t seem inclined to do anything about it.  
Harry resolved to wait in the common room for Ron and Hermione— Malfoy was putting on cologne, and the scent was doing things to Harry’s head. Things like encourage Harry to put Malfoy to bed, to tuck the blankets in and to let him sleep. And Harry wasn’t particularly suicidal, so he wasn’t going to do that.  
He made it to the common room and sat, scrubbing a hand over his face— Merlin, he was tired.   
The common room was sparsely populated— Hermione had a book, already studying, and she smiled at Harry’s arrival, but her eyebrows drew down as she took in his appearance, “Did you sleep?” She asked, earning a snort from Harry.  
“Not for lack of trying,” Harry answered, settling beside her while they waited for Ron; lucky bastard had gotten Neville as a roommate.  
Sadly for Harry’s mental state, Malfoy emerged from their room before Ron came from his. He looked haggard, his shoulders hunched as he spared nothing but the floor a glance and hotfooted out of the common room. Harry followed him with his eyes, Hermione watched Harry.  
“Seems he slept poorly as well,” Hermione said, without any of the innuendo the other blokes might have used, simply observation. Harry shrugged.  
He wanted to know why Malfoy wouldn’t sleep. Hermione saw that look in his eyes, and sighed— off to another year of Malfoy obsession.


	3. Chapter 3

A week of this. A bloody _week_. Harry was going to go insane. Or pass out. At this point, he’d take either.  
He and Malfoy were walking on eggshells around each other. Malfoy seemingly had infinite reading material, and each morning Harry woke to see the slytherin curled against the wall, face pinched even in sleep. Each morning he would jerk awake, ready to hex Harry within an inch of his life, only to relax that Harry was in fact not a murderer.  
They were completely silent, not really speaking aside from that first night, but Harry wanted to crawl out of his skin and just know what was _wrong_. Malfoy looked progressively worse, until one night he stood to get water and swayed violently on his feet, almost faceplanting.  
Harry, having been internally screaming for the Slytherin to sleep, finally stood and brandished his wand. The blond froze, watching him distrustfully, but Harry proceeded to place every protective enchantment and ward he knew on the door to their room, before turning and doing the same to the window. After that bout of strenuous casting was done, he turned to Malfoy, slightly sweaty from the burst of power, and raised his eyebrows. Malfoy...had relaxed, slightly, and for the first night they’d been there, closed his curtains when he returned to his bed. He probably didn’t sleep, but it was a start.  
His classes were stressful even _without_ the lack of sleep, but on top of it all, everyone was hounding him about his soul mark, about his tastes, about his relationships— if they saw him make coffee, they asked even about that. In short, Harry was about to snap.  
Seamus was by far the worst offender in terms of hounding Harry about the soul mark; “Just one look, Harry, 2 seconds, tops!” “It’s probably something stupid like a cat isn’t it?” and saying name upon name, trying to get a reaction out of him. Hermione, for all her nagging, at least left him be on this count.  
The younger years, however, were far bolder. He had fled the corridor after a gang of girls had attempted to rip his shirt off, the castle at large having deduced that it was on his chest. Mcgonagall had come down on the girls swiftly, but Harry was still leery about walking alone. He started enchanting his own clothes with protective charms, because the students were sneaky, and instead of bodily stripping him, they were finding vanishing charms, charms for turning items transparent— Flitwick would’ve been delighted, had their purposes not been nefarious.  
Harry, for his part, hadn’t hexed anyone, though he wanted to; especially when they had managed to tear the sleeve off his fourth good button down with a well aimed slicing hex.  
He didn’t want to seem weak and go to Hermione for help, so he asked an elf for needle and thread and sat grumbling at his desk, trying to stitch the ruddy thing back together. Malfoy was, as usual, reading, but the dark spots seemed to have lessened ever so slightly— Harry had been completely creepy and checked on him a couple nights ago, and saw the blond sleeping, curled into a ball on his pillows rather than the wall. So his roommate was not about to die, at least.  
Harry cursed as he pricked his finger for the nth time that evening, and the stitch came loose, “Bollocks.” Harry muttered, pulling the thread out and trying again— he was doing his best based off memory from the Dursleys, from having to stitch his own clothes smaller, by the light of his decrepit light bulb, so that Dudley’s clothes didn’t engulf him.  
Suddenly, a book came floating into his field of vision, and Harry turned to see Malfoy, still focused on his reading, but his wand out and pointed in Harry’s direction. The blond finally looked up from his book, and raised an eyebrow; Harry, caught with the first real look at Malfoy’s eyes, flustered and took the book, face flushed. His face reddened more as he realised what the book was.  
 _Malkins’ simple mending charms._ Harry smiled as he noticed the dog-eared page, opening it to stitching charms. He turned to look at Malfoy again, seeing the man still watching Harry. Harry smiled.  
“Thank you,” was all he said, before he turned, ears burning, to fix his shirt. Harry mouthed the words a couple of times, before he performed the charm, “ _consuo._ ” He watched as the shirt stitched itself back together, even fixing his choppy, half assed stitches, until it looked good as new. Magic was so convenient.  
Harry turned to put the shirt up, before pulling out his homework—charms was a relative cakewalk, compared to the war, defense was laughably easy and transfiguration was doable; potions was still a nightmare. Harry spent over an hour cross referencing ingredients, trying to identify the potion— Slughorn’s newest bint was that, in the event that you have an unidentified potion and only know certain ingredients, you should be able to narrow it down to what it is. That this was for those kidnapped was left unspoken, but the older years understood.  
He’d been given alihotsy and knarl quills, which sounded familiar, but bugger if he remembered what potion it was fun. He grumbled under his breath, before sneaking a furtive glance at Malfoy— Malfoy knew potions...but did Harry have that little pride left to ask?  
Harry worried his lower lip with his teeth, debating his options; agonise over it, find Hermione and get yelled at, laughed at, or assaulted again, or...suck it up and ask Malfoy.  
“Er, Malfoy?” Harry tried, cringing at how nervous he sounded— this was the first overt initiation of conversation they’ve had. He heard the turning of pages abruptly stop, and chanced a glance over his shoulder to see Malfoy had gone utterly still, and was looking as Harry suspiciously.  
“I, er….fuck it. I need help with potions.” If he’s going to humble himself, he might as well be quick about it.  
Malfoy raised an eyebrow, seeming unimpressed, and not inclined to speak. Harry sighed, turning back to his work, he figured that would be futile—   
Harry most certainly did _not_ squeak as Malfoy stood from his veritable nest of books, padding over towards Harry, looking at the parchment on his desk. Harry stayed utterly still, staring wide eyed at the blond, like any move he made would scare him off. Malfoy huffed, took Harry’s text and flipped it to the index, his thin, long finger trailing down the page as he read, before he flipped it to whatever he was looking for. He looked at Harry expectantly. Harry leaned forward and read:  
 _Laughing Potion: Ingredients include alihotsy leaves, billywig wings, knarl quills, puffskein hair, horseradish powder._  
Oh. Alihotsy sounds funny, and it’s in a laughing potion...fair enough. “Thank you,” he said quietly, but Malfoy was already going back to his nest, about to tuck back into his book.  
While Harry’s neck was already out, he might as well figure out why the slytherin was so quiet, “How come you don’t talk, anymore?” Harry blurted, before kicking himself. “I-I mean— you talked, that first night, but— .”   
“I don’t see the point.” Malfoy said, albeit quietly, but Harry stopped mid sentence, staring at him askance; Malfoy had _answered!_  
“But-but what about magic?” Harry wondered, and was rewarded with the patented Malfoy smirk as he flicked his wand—  
And undid Harry’s flies.  
Harry blushed, fixing himself, “Alright, alright point taken.” Harry could see the laughter on Malfoy’s face, he didn’t have to hear it, and it warmed him in his middle.  
Harry was doomed.


	4. Chapter 4

Ever since the night Malfoy helped with potions, it hadn’t been as...tense, in their room. Sure, Malfoy still barely slept, but he jerked from his place under a blanket, rather than slumped against the wall. He still glared at Harry, who was usually the one who woke him, typically by tripping on something, but the glare was no longer one that promised certain death.  
Their room continued to acquire books, with Malfoy’s bed becoming an actual nest, with only a space in the middle for him, and somewhat sizable stacks against the walls. Even Harry’s desk had become a repository for some books— mainly the ones for mending things and for potions, or whatever Harry needed help with. Harry honestly didn’t know where the books were _coming_ from.  
Harry had relaxed some too, but he was still changing in the washroom— Malfoy was not seeing Harry’s soul mark. In a traditional sense, Harry would think that they would obviously match; but Mrs. Weasley, the day she had explained to him after he had woken up panicked by this tattoo, said that they weren’t always reciprocal— in fact, to have reciprocal ones wasn’t actually that common. So Harry was keeping his mouth shut on the topic.Thankfully, as Malfoy seemed to be the only person who didn’t give a shit about what Harry’s soul mark was, and never made a move to ask.  
The hounding had eased off only minimally, with Seamus seemingly growing bored of it, but the younger years— Merlin, they were sneaky. One had hidden a camera charm in a letter that slipped into his bag, apparently hoping he went about his room topless. Another had asked if they could use him for their Potions assignment of Polyjuice; Harry had nearly consented until Hermione had intervened. Harry was growing frustrated with it, especially because even the _Prophet_ was getting in on the action, constantly speculating on what the mark was, who was his soul mate?  
The first time anyone suggested that it was Ginny, the youngest Weasley bust out laughing snorting orange juice up her nose by accident. Harry flushed, but laughed as well— they had long since worked out that they wouldn’t work together, but Ginny was still a good friend.  
So it was that he was constantly hounded by the world around him, spare for the surprising haven that was Draco Malfoy— all Malfoy cared about was not being bothered and that there were enough enchantments on the door to enforce a fortress. Harry hadn’t realised, but all the protections helped him sleep a little better too.  
Though he was trapped with his torturer in the room.  
Harry enjoyed interacting with Malfoy, even in his own weird way, but it meant his dreams had more material, which meant less sleep and more awkwardness. Especially when those dreams involved tongue along the fine edges of his soul mark.  
Harry shook his head, clearing his thoughts of distraction while he tried to focus on his potion— the room was _stifling_ , but he wasn’t going to unbutton the shirt. He had rolled up the sleeves, and untucked it, and loosened his tie, but that’s where he’s drawing the line.  
They were brewing a dissolution potion— meant to dissolve whatever it touched into vapor— and Harry had already deduced what nefarious schemes his year mates might’ve cooked up.  
What he had not expected was Morag MacDougal, a seemingly innocent Ravenclaw, to discreetly drop some down the back of his shirt while he was hunched over his potion.  
“Harry, your shirt!” Hermione said, and Harry felt the fabric dissolving, the fibres being eaten at, and he spit out an expletive, quickly casting a heavy glamour at himself as the cold air got at his skin.  
The room was in uproar as people tried to see his mark, but suddenly a protective barrier blocked them from within a couple feet of Harry, like a protective bubble. Slughorn seemed as perturbed as Harry by it, so he looked around—  
Malfoy, for all the world focused on his own potion, with his wand pointing out of his sleeve and pointed at Harry.  
Harry broke into a grin, and when Malfoy glanced up, the blond coloured as Harry mouthed _thank you._  
Harry got out of their and sprinted to his dorm, not wanting to be caught unawares, topless. He made it to his room and sighed, releasing the glamour on his chest with a sigh. He had liked that button down. He grabbed another, tossing the tie out— it was basically gone as well— and went into the washroom to button it up. The flowers were blooming brilliantly, preening as they were given time in the light.  
The door opened just as Harry had finished the last button, and he turned a grateful smile on Malfoy as the blond entered, “Thanks for that, I would’ve been mauled.”  
Malfoy’s ears were pink, and he wasn’t looking at Harry, “Yes, well,” he said quietly, but didn’t add on. Harry’s gaze lingered on Malfoy longer than it should have, and Harry cleared his throat, blushing some himself.  
“You seem quite...secretive, over your mark.” Malfoy said after a few moments, and Harry flushed harder— if he only knew…  
“It’s- yeah.” Harry answered lamely, but Malfoy, unlike his previous self, wasn’t judging, merely observing.  
“I assume then it’s not the She-Weasley.”  
“What? No!” Harry said, possibly a little more vehemently than he should’ve, because Malfoy flinched, and Harry instantly felt guilty.  
“Sorry, it’s just...no, it’s not Ginny.” he said finally, getting his bag ready for their next class.  
Malfoy didn’t seem willing to speak more, so they parted ways, but had Harry imagined the relief in his eyes when Harry had said it wasn’t Ginny?  
Harry forced the thought from his mind, falling into step beside Ron and Hermione, who immediately began teasing him.  
“Harry, mate, you might as well just wear two shirts, for all the work people are putting in,” Ron said, laughing, and Harry smiled weakly.  
“Ron, it’s not funny! Harry’s being assaulted!” Hermione had the social justice look on her face, which only made it a little bit funny.  
“I’m alright, ‘mione, really.” Harry didn’t want her to worry.  
“Mate, you’re going to have to tell someone eventually, you know. You can’t go around fending off assault forever.”  
“He is right, Harry,” Hermione agreed, “And it can’t honestly be that bad.”  
Harry thought about how Ron and Malfoy have fought over the years, of all the things he’s said to Hermione, of the Manor… “Yeah, yeah it can be that bad.” Harry sobered, kicking himself— he wants to see past that, at the sleep deprived bloke who levitates helpful books to him and wears loose jumpers that reveal so much of his creamy skin, of the freckles on his collarbone—  
“Harry, mate?”  
Harry shook himself out of his stupor, looking at his best friends, “What?”  
“You know who it is, don’t you.” Hermione repeated herself, and Harry flushed.  
“Yeah. Yeah I do.”


	5. Chapter 5

It started getting colder outside. The days shorter. Which ordinarily made Harry happy— he loved winter.  
But their room had a draft. A bad one.  
“Merlin’s tits,” Harry exclaimed, exiting the washroom one morning and casting another warming charm at the window, bundled up in his warmest jumper and gloves.  
Malfoy had ensconced himself in his cocoon, wrapped in blankets, books, and willpower it seemed, but his nose was bright red with the cold.  
Harry had seen him shivering as he prepared to leave in his button down and trousers, robes double layered against the chill— he didn’t pull out a jumper, or anything. Just lots of thin things. Harry swallowed and looked away, pulling on his trainers over his thickest socks.  
Malfoy sneezed, a high pitched shouting noise, and scared the daylights out of Harry, who whipped around to see the blond wiping his nose with a tissue, glaring at the world in general.  
He sighed, thought for a moment, and decided an embarrassed roommate is better than a dead one. He dug through his trunk, found a thick, warm black jumper with a good V neck, and tossed it over to Malfoy.   
The jumper landed with a thump, and Malfoy flinched, looking between it and Harry, eyebrows drawn together.  
“You’re cold,” Harry said, face flushing— he already regretted throwing the stupid thing over there.  
Malfoy slowly left his cocoon of blankets, face colouring, and he turned away from Harry—   
And Harry shamelessly stared, gaping, as Malfoy pulled the night shirt he was wearing over his head, revealing an expanse of creamy pale skin beneath. Malfoy pulled on the jumper, the sleeves slightly too long and the shoulders too broad, so that his collarbone w showed. Malfoy seemed satisfied with it, and Harry felt he was going to combust if his face got any redder.  
Especially when Malfoy turned with that soft smile, reserved for when he was surprised, “Thank you, Potter,” he said quietly, and Harry grunted a reply, not trusting himself to speak, and busied himself with his bag.  
The sight of Malfoy’s skin, the lithe muscles shifting as he moved, would stay with him until his grave.  
It also told him that Malfoy’s soul mark wasn’t on his back.  
Harry fled the room, breathing a sigh of relief as he escaped Malfoy scented torture, to see Hermione and Ron waiting for him, and the three headed off to breakfast.  
“Does your room have a draft?” was the first thing he asked.  
Hermione shook her head, but Ron nodded, “Kind of, it’s a bit chilly.”  
“Mine is an icebox! I’ve cast more warming charms at the window in the last few days than I had in my entire life,” Harry said vehemently.  
“There might be a crack in the stone,” Hermione offered, which didn’t make Harry feel better.  
They got into the Great Hall and settled in with the gryffindors to eat, but Harry had scarcely taken a bite when Seamus began jostling him.  
“Harry mate I think I found your soulmate,” he said, leering jokingly.  
Harry’s hand went to his chest, found it covered, and looked at Seamus, “What?”  
Seamus nodded, and Harry followed his eyes to see them following Malfoy, in Harry’s jumper, settling into his place at the Slytherin table with a book. Harry looked at Seamus again, confused.  
Apparently the rest of the table understood what Seamus meant, though, “Harry, that’s your jumper,” Neville pointed out, looking at him curiously.  
“Why does he have your jumper?” Ron asked, suspicion clear on his face.  
“It was….it was freezing in our room,” Harry said, the flush on his face betraying him— it really was only cold!  
“So you...what? For warmth?” Seamus suggested, and Harry’s face flamed as Hermione whacked the irish man with her napkin.  
“Seriously though, why does her have your jumper?” Dean asked after the laughter had died down.  
Harry’s mouth open and closed a couple of times, his blush far from fading, “He was cold, I offered the jumper.” Harry finally got out; it was the truth, but now that he was examining it from this light it felt...more than friendly.  
Seamus seemed highly amused no matter what explanation Harry gave, so Harry resigned himself to the teasing, poking his food around his plate while he inwardly crawled into a hole.  
The discovery that Malfoy had his jumper spread like wildfire, and seemed to inspire new vigor into those determined to know Harry’s soulmark, and by lunch harry wanted to hide.  
So he went into his dorm, not that hungry anyway. He opened the door, but froze at the sounds he heard in the washroom.  
Panting...gasping...bloody hell was Malfoy _wanking?_  
Harry saw the blond’s bag on his desk, confirming the other man’s presence, and Harry felt his own body react to the sounds in the washroom, and he leaned on the wall, fist in his mouth— he should _not_ be in here, listening. This was, this was creepy!  
Even as he thought that, a particularly long keening noise came from the washroom, and Harry had his flies down and was fisting himself before he even contemplated what he was doing. His knees quivered, and he kept his mouth covered— bloody hell.  
Harry jerked his wrist as he wanked himself, pacing himself with the panting breaths coming from the washroom; his thumb stroked over the head, and he bit down on his hand hard enough that it would probably leave a bruise, the noises from the wash room were speeding up—   
_“Nngh….Harry..”_  
Harry froze, so startled by the sound that he came without any warning, eyes impossibly wide as he silently screamed into his fist.  
He cleaned himself and disillusioned himself before Malfoy could get the door open, and quietly slipped out, making it to a sofa in the common room before his knees gave out, and he flopped onto the cushions, heart racing.  
Malfoy had just...and he….and then….  
Harry scrubbed two hands through his hair violently, his gut clenched— not only had he just wanked to the sound of Malfoy wanking, but Malfoy had….  
Harry was not prepared for this sort of thing. He just didn’t have the constitution. But he couldn’t _say_ anything!  
Harry had, luckily, had the good sense to pull a book out and put it in his lap, because Malfoy emerged from their room, looking like nothing had happened, still wearing Harry’s jumper, and he nodded at Harry as he left the room.  
Harry smiled weakly— how does one greet the bloke who just said your name while wanking? That you secretly wanked with? That didn’t know about this?  
Harry groaned, burying his face in his hands.  
This just got a lot more complicated.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry’s dreams punished him plenty for listening to Malfoy— every time he closed his eyes, he heard Malfoy whispering his name, gasping and panting, and he’d be rock hard in a minute.  
Malfoy, thankfully, seemed none the wiser; though, sometimes he pinned Harry with a look so piercing that Harry wondered if he did know, somehow. Harry tried to push it from his mind and focus on his homework, jumping every time Malfoy so much as fidgeted, until the blond noticed.  
“Is there a problem, Potter?” Malfoy asked, days after what Harry has dubbed _the incident._  
_Yes, I listened to you wank and thinking about it makes me hard._ “No, no problem.” Harry said instead, abandoning his homework for the night and retrieving a set of nightclothes— he’d given up on trackies, instead sleeping in pants and a big t-shirt; it was more comfortable, and he didn’t feel like his room was dangerous enough to warrant being fully dressed.  
He felt Malfoy’s eyes on him— the blond didn’t believe him, which was fair. Harry sequestered himself in the washroom, hidden from the weight of the other man’s gaze. Unbidden, he recalled that Malfoy had wanked in here, had panted his name…  
Harry gritted his teeth, willing his growing erection to wilt, and turned on the water for the shower.  
He stepped under the spray, and let his eyes fall shut, the image of Malfoy forcing its way to the front of his mind.  
His face, pinched with pleasure, that soft smile falling open as he gasped, hair tousled, _“nngh...Harry…”,_ a keening note drawn from his throat. Harry braced one forearm on the wall, his other hand going to his now throbbing cock, biting his lip as he took himself in hand, thinking of Malfoy’s body, his eyes, his smile—   
He came harder than he expected, and had he not braced himself, his knees would’ve given out. As it was, he had let out a low, drawn out moan, which was _surely_ audible in the other room. Harry flushed— Malfoy must’ve heard that.  
He finished his shower, embarrassed that he had just unashamedly wanked over Malfoy— again!  
He eased out of the washroom after dressing, pointedly not looking at the other man, and shuffling over to his side of the room to settle in for the night. What had escaped Harry’s notice, until then however, was that Malfoy still had his jumper.  
He glanced over to confirm, and Malfoy was in fact wearing Harry’s jumper again, the sleeves shoved back so that the blond could use his hands. It fell off one shoulder, revealing the lightly toned muscles leading into his arm. Harry gulped and looked away.  
He had started sleeping with the curtain partially open, the closed in space reminding him too much of the cupboard, so he settled into the bed without pulling it all the way shut, the light from Malfoy’s lamp slanting across his bed. Malfoy was, as always, still reading.  
“What are you reading?” Harry blurted, before immediately flushing.  
Malfoy seemed to surface from his reading slowly, taking a moment to process Harry’s question, before he levitated his book over to show Harry the cover, keeping his place while he did so.  
_“Intermediate Healing Spells; Level 3”_ Harry read, eyebrows drawing together in surprise— he hadn’t thought Malfoy would study healing magic.  
“Well Potter, you don’t really know me, do you?” Malfoy said, and Harry realised he had voiced his surprise out loud, and he cringed.  
The war. Of course Malfoy would want to know healing spells.   
“Is that what you want to do then? Be a healer?” Harry asked, pressing his luck— getting any kind of a reaction, let alone a verbal one, was an achievement.  
A softer look passed over Malfoy’s face for a moment, shadowed with grief, before he cleared his throat, “I would like to, yes.”  
Harry imagined Malfoy, tall and posh, strutting through St. Mungo’s in lime robes and fixing people; it wasn’t as out of place as he thought it’d be.  
“And aurors for you, I suppose.” Malfoy said offhandedly, his book returning to his lap.  
Harry thought about that for a moment; he hadn’t really considered the aurors since fifth year. The war had been more than enough for him. But the rest of the world thought that was where he was destined to be, they expected it of their Saviour.  
“Potter?”  
Harry shook his head, realising Malfoy had been waiting for his affirmation, and was now looking at him like Hermione does a complex arithmancy problem.  
He offered a small smile and a shrug, “I don’t really know, to be honest.”  
Malfoy gave him another long look, before he flicked his wand at one of his teetering stacks of books, pulling one from the middle— somehow without sending them all over— and floating it over to Harry.  
He took the book and read the cover, a snort escaping him; _“101 Careers for the Listless Wizard: Volume 1”._ Harry smirked at Malfoy, “Pot, Kettle.”  
Malfoy smirked at that, before returning to his own reading, and looking at him, Harry realised that what he had originally thought to be fidgeting was actually Malfoy practicing wand movements, mouthing the words to spells for practice.  
After a few moments more than what was probably appropriate, Harry tore his gaze away from the blond to look down at the book, flipping it open to the table of contents to peruse— who knew, maybe his dream career was in here. If anything, it might make Malfoy happy. Harry huffed a laugh at that, he’s such a _sap._  
Harry looked at the frankly quite extensive list— there were actually 101 careers listed, after all— and, to his surprise, a couple actually jumped out at him as interesting. There was Quidditch, obviously, but there was also genealogy, or….he could be a professor?  
Harry flicked over to the genealogist description, scanning the page with veiled interest;  
 _“A wizarding genealogist conducts research via blood tests or records to construct a reliable family tree for a wizarding family, in order to identify genetic diseases, or identifying markers. Most commonly, genealogists are employed by pureblood families to find suitable matches for their heirs, or to verify heritage rankings.”_  
While the part involving family politics made Harry gag, the idea of tracing wizarding heritage intrigued him— he knew nothing about the Potters, or really any family.   
He spent the rest of the evening studying the book, looking at genealogy, quidditch, teaching— even Magizoologist for shits and giggles, until his eyes were dropping and his neck ached from being hunched over the pages. He shut the book, raising his wand to return it to Malfoy, but he kind of wanted to keep reading it.  
“Do you mind if I keep this for the night?” Harry asked, looking at Malfoy—  
His jaw dropped.  
Malfoy was studying what looked to be a rock, but it was imbued with all sorts of glowing colours, and he was using his wand to pull the different threads up and look at them, referencing the book on his lap as he did so. The different colours danced across his cheekbones, his eyes.  
Harry’s mouth was uncomfortably dry, and he stared unabashedly, until Malfoy finally dropped whatever spell that was, turning to acknowledge Harry; his hair was stuck to his forehead, and he was out of breath.  
“What was that?” harry asked, previously question forgotten— that had been _cool._  
“Spell to visualise the magic on an object,” Malfoy said, pushing the hair back from his face, “Healers use it to see curse or spell damage in patients.”  
Harry nodded— that made sense, but it still looked cool, “So all the colours-?”  
“Different spells,” Malfoy responded, gesturing to the book, “Different spells scan as different colours— the stronger the magic, the brighter the colour, etcetera etcetera.” Malfoy shook his head, blowing out a breath, “You asked something?”  
Harry jolted, remembering, “Oh! I was asking if I could keep this for the night,” He held up the book.  
Malfoy nodded, “Sure.”  
Harry smiled, and something in Malfoy’s face softened, and he smiled back. Harry felt something warm in his belly even as he blushed, they were just smiling at each other!  
Harry cleared his throat, face heating up more, “Well, um, goodnight then.” Harry slumped down in his bed, facing the wall to hide his goofy grin.  
He barely heard it as Malfoy doused his light, “Goodnight, Harry.”


	7. Chapter 7

Harry had continued to read about wizarding careers, floored by the options— he had always thought it was a Ministry employee or bust. He had begun his own stack of books, though his paled before the piles Malfoy continued to acquire. Their room had begun to look like a hoarder’s library for all the books tucked into the nooks and crannies, or simply left in great stacks around the room.  
Harry had, surprisingly, come to think of this time as a sanctuary— sitting in his room, quietly reading and occasionally snarking at Malfoy, who for all his reticence gave as good as he got, and they’d often find themselves talking about the most inane things.  
Outside of his room, he felt...he didn’t know how he felt, to be honest. The younger years seemed to have finally gotten over their starstruck whispering of the autumn, but in its place a new boldness, a disregard for his reputation in the face of their pranks and schemes. It seemed that without his supposed star power to keep them at bay, many a witch or wizard wanted to prank him with all manner of Wheeze’s. Of course, there were still groups who wanted to know his soul mark, but their methods have become less aggressive, which worried Harry greatly— he knew how to fend off attacks, but subtlety? Not his bag.  
One such day, Harry was walking towards transfiguration, not quite paying attention, when suddenly everything went dark. Peruvian Instant Darkness powder. Harry choked as it went up his nose, into his mouth, eyes blindly seeking any source of light as his chest tightened. He felt hands pulling at him, clawing at him, and Harry tugged away, stumbling backwards and falling, his heart rate picking up speed steadily as he tried to find his way out; the hands, the darkness, the tight, Harry couldn’t take it, he panicked, balled up his magic, and pushed.  
It felt like a concussive blast ripped out of him, banishing the powder and throwing everyone away from him. He was huddled on the floor, hands splayed on the stone, wild eyed as he looked around— 5th years, scrambling to their feet, looking at him with fear. Teachers, older years, younger years...Harry was trapped.  
“Mr. Potter,” Mcgonagall started forward, but stopped when Harry’s entire body jerked, his head snapping in her direction, and he realised that his entire body was trembling.  
“Harry—,”  
Harry bolted, flying through the ring of people like they were strands of grass, his feet hitting the stone as his heart continued to pound, his thoughts racing— he heard the people behind him, he didn’t look back.  
The 8th years in the common room jerked as he slammed the door open, yelping as he flew threw the room and threw himself into his door, slamming it and leaning back against it with far more force than necessary.  
Logically, Harry figured out that he was having a panic attack, but that logic didn’t compute with the rest of him as he slid down to sitting on the floor, clawing at his chest.  
Malfoy, who had been studying, was on his feet, having leapt up in alarm at Harry’s sudden entrance; he had his wand out, but was staring at the trembling man before him in confused alarm, “Potter?”  
Harry flinched hard at the sound of his name, staring at his hands without really seeing them, until suddenly Malfoy swam into his field of vision; the blond’s face looked wrought with concern, eyebrows furrowed and lips pressed into a thin line. Harry closed his eyes, shutting out the face as the echoing shouts of his relatives still bounced through his head: that ruddy cupboard—   
“Potter? Potter, you’re dissociating.” He heard Malfoy, he did, but he heard Vernon slamming on the door, Dudley laughing wildly, felt the dust settle on him as he clawed the air, looking for the light—   
His right eye was suddenly pried open, and he reflexively lurched back, but he was against the door, and he struggled harder when he saw Malfoy’s wand pointed at his face; his pulsing was thrumming wildly, and his breath was coming in harsh pants.  
Malfoy’s wand tip lit up, and Harry strained to shut his eye against it, practically rolling it back in his head to get away from it until the light died again. He was still struggling, his muscles spasming of their own accord as he made eye contact with Malfoy.  
“You’re not having a seizure,” Malfoy said, scanning Harry’s face for something— Godric knew what, but Harry just wanted to get _away_ —   
The panic drained from him, all of once, his pulse slowed and his brain felt as though it had been forced into slow motion, the sudden juxtaposition nauseating, and Harry felt bile climbing up his throat. Suddenly, he was over a toilet, and he retched, feeling soothing hands at his back, and another on his chest, keeping him from toppling into his own sick. The retching abated into dry heaves, and those eventually tapered off into panting breaths, and his abdomen eventually relaxed, and Harry finally noticed Malfoy’s hands, one still on his chest, the other running soothing circles along his side, presumably easing the seizing muscles.  
Harry sat back on his heels, breathing still laboured, but he could _think._ “What, the fuck was that,” he rasped, throat raw from the bile.  
Malfoy’s hands finally left him, and he noticed that his skin felt cold in their absence. “That, Potter, was a severe panic attack. What I hit you with was a spell to slow your heart rate before you went into cardiac arrest.” Malfoy had stood, holding a hand out to help Harry up.  
Harry hesitated, before he took the offered hand and was hauled to his feet, steadied when he stumbled from the sudden vertigo.  
“One of those spells from your books, then?” Harry said, focusing on not falling over again, getting his brain in order.  
Malfoy grunted affirmatively, releasing Harry’s hand after a moment, and returning to their room.  
“Thank you” Harry said, flushing slightly in embarrassment— he panicked so bad he almost had a heart attack? That’s ridiculous, even for him.  
Malfoy gave a nod of acknowledgement, picking up his fallen boom and flipping through the pages to his previous place.  
“You know Malfoy, you’ll make a good healer.” Harry had no ruddy clue why he had just said that, and Malfoy had gone so utterly still that he worried he had just mucked up whatever this was between them.  
Malfoy was giving him a hard look, gaze piercing through to his core— and then he relaxed, giving a low smile, and returned to his reading.  
Harry didn’t know what he just achieved by earning that look, but whatever it was, it made Harry feel a warm purr of satisfaction work its way through his chest. Dreading what waited for him outside his sanctuary, he settled onto his bed, looking for his bag—  
The bag he had abandoned in the corridor, when he had fled.  
Harry groaned, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes; so his isolation wouldn’t be so long after all.  
He took a deep breath and slid their door open, hoping he could creep out, but stopped at the sight of his bag, leaning on the door, with a calming drought on top of it, and the whiff of lemon.  
Thank merlin for Hermione Granger.


	8. Chapter 8

People had given Harry a wider berth since his panic attack— except for Hermione, who practically attached herself to his right side and walked with him everywhere, wand hidden from sight but firm in her hand.  
She had been the only person who had seen him have a panic attack before, and if there was one thing that she never wanted to see again, it was that.  
After a few days, though, things devolved into their normal progression of the day, with pranks— albeit, more innocent ones— returning to plague Harry on a daily basis.  
His favourite, though, had been a third year’s jewelry charm, which exploded in a mound of confetti and left him with what looked like Mardi Gras beaded necklace spelling out “Prat”. He had grinned at the little Ravenclaw, who had turned beet red and hidden behind a book.   
Hermione thought the pranks were anything but funny, and the other lads were of the opinion that if Harry just let people see the mark on his chest, they’d leave him alone.  
Harry point-blank refused; his mark was still captivating, even if Harry was mostly used to it now. He remembered when Malfoy had flattened a hand on his chest, holding him as he retched— Malfoy’s hand had been right over the mark, and the flowers had practically preened when he had disrobed that evening. So the pranks continued, and Harry did his best to laugh them off good-naturedly, only retaliating by sending a swift _incendio_ at any copy of the _Prophet_ he saw in the Great Hall.  
He knew his friends were concerned, that Ron and Hermione were worried about him, about whatever it was that he wanted to hide so bad, but Harry just...he felt guilty, he did, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell them. He didn’t know how they’d react— disgust, shock, horror? Merlin, they didn’t even know he was _gay._  
It was getting on towards Christmas, the days getting far shorter and snow starting to coat the grounds. Harry _loved_ the scent of pine in the corridors as he moved between his classes— he did not love sidestepping the rapidly multiplying mistletoe, as younger years tried to trap him under its leaves.   
Harry sat in his dorm finishing an essay for potions—the properties of cheering potions with different ingredient substitutions— when Malfoy walked into their room, giving off the aura of someone who didn’t want to be messed with.  
Harry looked at him, eyebrows drawn together— the blond’s proverbial hackles were raised, his face was pinched, and his movements had a tense rigidity to them as he sat and opened a book roughly, abusing the pages he normally cherished.  
“Malfoy?” the blond didn’t respond, but he grew tenser, the line of his shoulders growing straighter.  
“Malfoy, what’s wrong?” Harry tried again, and this time, Malfoy lifted his wand, and a piece of parchment slid out of his pocket, flying right at Harry’s head with a viscious speed.   
Harry snatched it out of the air, ducked slightly so he wasn’t stabbed in the eye, and winced at the sight of the ministry seal— this didn’t bode well. He unfolded the parchment and scanned it, stomach sinking: they were forbidding Malfoy from going home for Christmas to see his mother. He was to remain at Hogwarts where he could be monitored.  
Well, that explained the look on Malfoy’s face. He felt pity and sympathy worming its way through him— he had been planning to return to the Burrow, to Molly Weasley’s cooking and the laughter of his family. But Malfoy...he’d be all alone.  
Harry stared at the parchment some more; he could do something, couldn’t he? He could...He could…  
“What if she came here?” Harry blurted, before his eyes widened and he looked sheepishly at Malfoy, who’s stony gaze had shifted from boring a hole into his book to boring a hole into Harry.  
“What if we...we asked Mcgonagall, and she could come here?”  
Malfoy stared for another moment, then responded, spitting the words out through gritted teeth, “She’s under house arrest.”  
Oh. Well Harry felt like a right tit, “Oh.”  
Malfoy returned to boring a hole into his book, his knuckles white where he gripped it.  
Harry thought for a while, looking between the parchment and Malfoy, worrying his lower lip with his teeth as he tried to think of a way to make it better— he didn’t like when people were angry.  
He started as the parchment eased itself from his grip and floated back to Malfoy, who snatched it out of the air and shoved in his pocket, “Don’t fret, Potter. Nothing you can do,” Malfoy said, but his voice held such bitterness that Harry didn’t really feel better. The idea of Malfoy, all alone in the castle as everyone went home to their families…  
Harry grabbed a piece of parchment and a self-inking quill, scribbling out a letter to Molly; apologising that he wouldn’t be able to make it on Christmas.  
He folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket— he’d go up to the owlery before his next class.  
He took up his essay again, still shooting furtive glances at Malfoy, who seemed to be growing more and more agitated, until the blond abruptly set his book down and glared at Harry.  
“Stop staring at me like a kicked crup,” Malfoy snapped, and Harry forced himself to look at his essay, cheeks heating as embarrassment curled through him.  
He heard the blond sigh, footsteps, then the mattress sagged beside him. Harry went utterly still, eyes wide and heart pounding at the fact that Malfoy was sitting next to him. On his bed. Malfoy on his bed.  
“Stop staring at your parchment and let me apologise, you berk,” Malfoy finally said, and Harry slowly looked over to see Malfoy scrubbing a hand over his face, looking far tireder than he should.  
“I’m...sorry, for snapping. You were only trying to help.” the admission looked like it cost Malfoy a lot to get out, but warmth sprung up in Harry’s chest nonetheless.  
“I get it,” Harry finally said, “you were mad.”  
Malfoy sighed again, nodding, eyes not leaving Harry.  
They found themselves just watching each other, both aware that their knees were brushing together, that Malfoy was sitting on Harry’s bed, that they were alone.  
Malfoy cleared his throat, looking away, pink staining his cheeks as he returned to his bed, picking up his book much more gently this time.  
Harry smiled, his own face warm, and returned to his essay, resolutely ignoring the fluttering in his chest.  
He felt like he had broken through a wall, an important one; Malfoy had _apologised._   
Harry felt Malfoy’s eyes on him, and didn’t look up, but preened under the look anyway. He heard a huffed laugh, and the flipping of pages as normality settled over them again.  
Who knew Harry’s normal would become Malfoy?


	9. Chapter 9

The castle was practically empty— more students than ever before had gone home for Christmas, which made sense; families were still healing from the war, they wanted their own to be near them.  
Malfoy hadn’t said anything outright when Harry didn’t leave their room for the train, but he did stare incredulously for a long moment, before sighing and settling into his book again— but he had a soft smile on his face.  
Mcgonagall had invited him for tea, and they had chatted for a bit— mostly nonsense, pleasantries, chasing away the chill of the empty castle with each other’s company— and Harry visited Hagrid down at his hut, suffering a rock cake to enjoy his company.  
Malfoy didn’t seem to do much different than he had during term, though he did make forays into the common room now and again to sit by the fire. The large tree was up, decorated by the house elves in the night, and Harry realised that he should maybe get Malfoy something for Christmas, but he had no idea what to get.  
Probably a book, or bookshelves, though shelves might encourage him to get more books, and if that happened Harry might no longer fit in their room. Harry sat up suddenly from where he had sat beside the fire, he’s an _idiot._  
He crept into their room, Malfoy having gone to the greenhouses for his herbology project, and dug through his trunk, until he unearthed the wand.  
The hawthorn wand, the wand that defeated Voldemort— Malfoy’s wand.  
Harry didn’t know if Malfoy would want it back, but he felt like it was worth it to try...and he’d get some books, just in case.  
He tucked it away and resumed his lying about; he had homework, but he couldn’t be arsed to do it. He looked out the windows of their common room at the pristine, silvery white snow, the fat flakes adding to the soft layer on the ground— it was perfect for a snowball fight. He briefly imagined asking Malfoy, the look of utter disgruntlement that would form, and he huffed a laugh.  
He could make snowmen…  
Hours later, he was freezing, and his nose was red, and he had made snowmen all over the grounds: short ones, fat ones, tall ones, wiggly ones, ones with enchanted arms, ones with feet, and others. He even made a snow-quidditch team, when he heard crunching in the snow behind him.  
“Potter, what the hell?” Malfoy asked, wrapped up thoroughly, though he was wearing Harry’s jumper— again.   
Harry grinned, “I built a snow army!” Harry felt something like childish glee; he had never been allowed to play in the snow as a kid, the Dursleys didn’t want him messing up their garden.  
Malfoy was studying the snowmen nearest them, before taking out his wand and making one of his own, swishing and flicking and shaping a snow—  
Harry busted out laughing; it was a Snow-Severus Snape. A snow-Snape.  
Malfoy smirked, his face rosy with cold and possibly pleasure.  
Harry hadn’t even _thought_ of using magic; he’d been too excited about the principle of the thing. He took out his own wand, and shaped his own snowman, sticking his tongue out with effort to get it just right.  
The gobsmacked look on Malfoy’s face was worth it— he had made a snow-Malfoy, this one sticking his tongue out.  
“How rude, Potter,” Malfoy wasn’t offended if the quivering of his face was anything to  
go by, but he did make another snowman— this one of Harry, looking to be mid-fall. Harry wrinkled his nose; he wasn’t _that_ skinny.  
Though now that Malfoy was out here…  
Harry used his wand to form three perfect snowballs, picking one up, and when Malfoy turned to look at him, he lobbed it at the blond.  
It landed with a solid smack on his chest, and Malfoy’s jaw dropped, he looked outraged— before his face twisted into a devious smirk, and he summoned his own ammunition.  
What followed was a harrowing battle, in which many snowmen died, and Harry got enough snow down his shirt that he was sure he’d be soaked when it melted. Malfoy, for his part, had lost his hat, and his hair had snow in it, with streaks of freezing water across his face.  
They had laughed while fighting, and Harry hadn’t laughed quite so hard in a long time— from the looks of Malfoy’s grin, he hadn’t either.  
They were walking back towards their room, dripping and shivering, when the reality of their situation settled on them, and Malfoy’s grin softened into something different.  
“You know Potter, you’re different than I thought you’d be.”  
Harry stopped, shocked. Was that...a _complement?_ Malfoy stopped when he realised Harry had, raising an eyebrow at him, and Harry couldn’t stop the goofy grin spreading across his face.  
Malfoy just rolled his eyes, turning and continuing towards their room, and Harry followed, not trusting himself to say anything, but pleased nonetheless.  
When they reached the common room, Harry dragged off his outer layers, letting them lay by the fire to dry, until he was in a t-shirt, his trackies, and bare feet again. Malfoy hadn’t dropped his clothes, though he had dropped his hat by the fire— he had continued on to their room, presumably to grab new clothes. Harry flopped down on the large, slouchy sofa, sinking into the cushions and humming contentedly in the warmth; his mark unfolded under his shirt, and Harry rubbed at it absently, feeling more at peace than he had for a while.  
Malfoy returned to the common room, bringing his own set of books and dropping Harry’s on his stomach, before clearing his throat and pointedly looking at Harry’s legs, sprawled across the entirety of the couch. Harry grinned sheepishly, sitting up and curling his legs under him, swallowing a contented hum as Malfoy sat down at the other end, crossing one leg over the other and opening a book. Harry opened his own book— it was a compendium about magical creatures— and settled in, warmth stirring in his belly with satisfaction.  
That’s how they spent most of their break— doing something silly in the mornings, then settling to read by the fire. On Christmas morning, Harry had gotten up early enough to already have found breakfast for the two of them and be bouncing excitedly all over the common room; there were gifts under the tree! A modest pile for Harry, and a gathering of items for Malfoy; that part made Harry nervous, his gifts were down there, snuck down in the dead of night.  
Malfoy emerged from their room, rubbing at his face as he mumbled incoherently to himself. He stopped abruptly at the sight of Harry, eyes processing him, then the tree, then the presents, and the breakfast. Malfoy’s hair was sticking out in multiple directions, and his pajama pants were short enough to show Malfoy’s ankles— Harry should not be fascinated by Malfoy’s ankles, but he really is.  
Malfoy slouched onto the couch, pulling the food towards him and tucking in, seemingly not fully awake yet; Harry sat down next to him, waiting impatiently— ever since he had come to Hogwarts, he got irrationally excited about presents at Christmas.   
Malfoy finally relented, and they proceeded to demolish the pile of presents— when Malfoy got to Harry’s, he looked at the man in confusion, before slowly opening the thin parcel to reveal the hawthorn wand.  
He was utterly still, staring at the wand in the paper, eyes wide and hands trembling, and Harry began to regret this idea— then Malfoy slowly picked up the piece of wood, fingers running reverently over it, and Harry realised with a lurch that Malfoy’s eyes were watery. He looked up and locked eyes with Harry, his face so full of emotion that it made Harry’s heart clench, “Thank you,” Malfoy whispered, looking down at the wand again, surreptitiously swiping at his eyes.   
They didn’t acknowledge his tears, but when they settled in to read that afternoon, Malfoy sat closer to Harry than he had, cheeks pink as he leaned ever so slightly against him. Harry bit his lip to keep his face neutral, turned towards the book in his lap, even as his face warmed as satisfaction welled up inside him.  
This may have been his favourite Christmas.


	10. Chapter 10

The noise of the start of term was almost overwhelming, compared to the peace of Christmas hols, but Harry was happy to see Hermione and Ron, along with the other Gryffindors. Everyone seemed less frenetic, like the hols had given just long enough for everyone to recover from the fall term.  
Of course, it seemed the younger years were more motivated than ever to harass Harry, motivating even the professors to step in at times. Harry was honestly a bit numb to it at this point; he had his studies, his friends, and his...Malfoy.  
Malfoy had settled back into their pattern of normality, forgoing some of the closeness of Christmas, but Harry had started to notice when he would ease closer, settling in beside Harry as he read— and he had kidnapped another of Harry’s jumpers. Harry wasn’t sure where the black one had got off to, but he noticed Malfoy was wearing a royal blue one of his now, the deep colour making his eyes gleam; Harry chose not to ask, but his coming to a stand still in the doorway, accompanied by the pink tinge on Malfoy’s cheeks, was all the answer he needed.  
The professors seemed to decide Christmas was the calm before the storm, and the eighth years received enough homework that Harry doubted Malfoy slept— of course, Harry wasn’t either, staying up into the wee hours squinting at charts and trying to memorise ingredients combinations. Hermione was in her element, whipping out her colour coded charts and studying fastidiously.  
Then shit the fan at dinner a few weeks in; Harry had let his guard down, stopped enchanting his clothes— he’d been busy bickering with Malfoy that morning to notice. His world had rapidly narrowed down to time with Malfoy, as he slowly got through the layers of the other man, finding the snark, the genuine laughter, the quick sense of human and sharp wit, right along with the puns and childlike wonder every time he got a spell right. The bookworm, the flyer, the pristine, the slouchy— Harry had fallen _hard._  
He was busily daydreaming while eating, thinking what nonsensical topic he would distract Malfoy with tonight, smiling at the image of the blond setting his book down in a huff, the shape of his lips as he explained things in exasperation, the smile hidden in his eyes as Harry flopped on the floor between their beds, arms cushioning his head as he listened.  
He felt the cold air on his back before he realised what was happening, and he froze.  
His shirt was gone.  
He splayed a hand on his chest, where the flowers were blooming, and he vaguely noticed the shrieks, the gasps, absently acknowledged the Gryffindors forming up around him— they take the mickey out of him, but they no when to get serious. His eyes found Malfoy, who was staring at him, fork paused halfway to his mouth— the blond’s eyes were trained on his chest.  
He saw the mark.  
Harry was flooded with mortification, horror, shock, and he did what any sensible man would do.  
He ran away.  
The Gryffindors were already on the hunt for whoever cast the disintegrating curse— clever spell, he had to admit— and he sprinted out of the great hall, face burning as he felt the air hitting his chest for the first time in months.  
He took stairs two at a time, vaguely registered footfalls behind him, “Potter!”  
_Malfoy._  
Harry ran faster, embarrassment curdling in his veins; he would _not_ face him.  
He made it to the common room, scaling the couch in his effort to get away to _hide;_ his pulse pounding in his ears almost concealed the sound of Malfoy right behind him, cursing as he shoved at the door.  
Harry got to their room and ducked into the wash room, slamming it shut as Malfoy followed. Harry slammed the lock into place, leaning on the door as Malfoy’s body slammed into it, causing his heart rate to jump higher. His chest was heaving, and he looked into the mirror, saw the glazed, rolling eyes of a panic attack, face flushed, flowers blooming wider than ever.  
“Potter.”  
Harry flinched, may have even let a whimper escape; he couldn’t face him, he _couldn’t_.   
This fucking.. _thing_ ruined whatever friendship he had managed to get, he was sure of it; he didn’t want to lose that. Harry realised with a jolt that his face was wet, and mortification settled deeper into his bones— he was _crying_. Pathetic.  
“Harry.”  
Harry froze, eyes getting impossibly wider. Malfoy just said his name? He sounded so...resigned, and he…  
“Come out of there,” Malfoy’s voice was muffled through the wood, but Harry slowly turned and faced the door, apprehension curling in his chest, squeezing his heart; what if it was a trick?  
“Stop panicking and open the door,” Malfoy said, and Harry huffed a laugh, trembling slightly as he undid the bolt, letting the door open a little.  
Malfoy’s hand reached in, holding a shirt— one of Harry’s. Harry felt relief ease through him as he took it, covering the mark again, feeling like he was on slightly more even footing.  
The door swung the rest of the way open, showing Malfoy leaning on the frame, hair tousled and slightly mussed from running, the expression on his face startlingly soft, “Are you alright?”  
Harry nodded jerkily, not entirely sure what to do in this situation, and instinctively backing up when Malfoy took a step into the washroom; the blond stopped, gauging Harry’s reactions, “May I see it?” he asked softly.  
Harry closed his eyes and nodded, face heating again as he felt Malfoy’s fingers oh so gently undid the top buttons of the shirt, sliding the fabric aside and laying eyes on the mark. The flowers bloomed, preening under his gaze, and Harry’s breath hitched when Malfoy’s fingers traced the petals delicately.   
“Narcissus and Pansy,” Malfoy said, breath ghosting across Harry’s chest, and Harry didn’t dare breathe, or open his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”  
Harry bit his lip, feeling how close Malfoy was to him, he was _right there._ “I…”  
“Open your eyes.”  
Harry cracked one open, and saw that Malfoy had stepped back some, but his hand hadn’t left the soul mark, and he was looking at Harry patiently, but with some unidentifiable emotion in his eyes.   
“I...I didn’t…” Harry looked down; he couldn’t look at him for this, this was too much.  
“I...they’re not mutual.” Harry finally blurted, lamely, and his face burned as he wanted to curl into himself to hide; this was horrifying, he was going to cry in front of his apparent _soulmate_ like a child.  
“Who told you that?” Malfoy asked, not having the reaction Harry expected, and when he looked at Malfoy again, he looked so earnest, so concerned, that Harry had to look away again.  
“Mrs. Weasley...she said that they weren’t normally mutual.” Harry said quietly, the trembling starting again; he wasn’t going to cry, he _wasn’t._  
He heard Malfoy sigh, a deep, drawn out exhale, and his hand left Harry’s chest, leaving the flowers cold in its absence. Harry looked up to see Malfoy undoing the buttons of his own shirt, “What are you doing?”  
Malfoy shushed him, untucking his shirt and pulling it open, either not noticing or ignoring Harry’s rapt gaze on his pale skin, on the light muscle tone, and the fair golden hair trailing down into his waistband; Harry’s mouth went bone dry.  
Malfoy pulling the edge of his trousers away from his right hip, and Harry opened his mouth to ask what he was doing again, until he caught sight of the mark on his hip.  
He was speechless.


	11. Chapter 11

Harry couldn’t take his eyes away from the mark marring Malfoy’s skin.  
The lily bloomed slowly, shyly, the vines spiraling away languidly as the golden centre revealed itself, gleaming. Around it, small, crimson flowers sprung into being from their tight buds, blossoming around the lily until it was framed by red.  
Lily and Ginger.  
Harry’s fingers moved of their own accord, twitching with the need to touch it, to trace the petals, to make sure it was real; he looked to Malfoy, eyes wide and begging, and Malfoy nodded once, his face red. Harry reached out, and flinched minutely when Malfoy’s own breath got caught in his throat as Harry caressed the flowers. The lily grew brighter, somehow, the petals shining, and the skin beneath was warm, with a thrumming pulse, full of life. He was touching Malfoy.  
Harry couldn’t pull away, his fingers tracing the contours of the petals, and he stepped closer, eyes on the mark, entranced. Malfoy’s hand returned to his chest, and they stood there, mesmerised by the flowers.  
“Harry.”  
Malfoy tucked two fingers under Harry’s chin, lifting his face to look into his eyes.  
“They’re mutual.”  
Malfoy kissed him.  
Harry’s nerve endings lit up, and he reacted almost on instinct, not knowing what to do with his mouth, his hands, but the fire that licked through him was intoxicating. He placed his hands gently on Malfoy’s hips, thumb brushing the soul mark on Malfoy’s hip, earning a gasp from the blond. Malfoy’s hands were on his shoulders, one working its way up the back of his neck and tangling into his hair, his nails on Harry’s scalp eliciting a gasp of his own.  
They were flush against each other, having moved closer of their own accord, and Harry felt hot all over, too close but not close enough, and he held Malfoy tight, delighting in the feeling of kissing the other man.  
After what felt like ages, Malfoy pulled away, leaning his forehead against Harry’s, and they breathed together, simply existing.  
They calmed down after a while, but Harry remained close to Malfoy, settling beside him as the blond opened a book, curling into him and revelling in the contact. Malfoy tangled a hand in Harry’s hair, resting it in the curls as he read, a smile on his face. Harry continued tracing the mark on the blond’s hip, delighting in the little sounds he made, and the way the flowers preened under the attention.  
The following morning, when Malfoy sat beside Harry at the Gryffindor table, wearing Harry’s jumper and not bothering to hide the marks Harry had left on his neck, there was a moment of dead silence, before Seamus whooped and hit Harry on the back hard enough for him to spew pumpkin juice out his nose. Then there was uproar as word of Harry Potter’s soulmate became the new hot topic, and the _Prophet_ had a headline the very next day.  
Harry didn’t mind, not when after a look of pure shock on Ron’s face lasted for a solid minute, then he hastily swallowed what he had been in the midst of chewing, wiped his mouth, and said to Malfoy, “If you hurt him you’re dead meat.” before calmly resuming breakfast. Hermione had smiled knowingly, Seamus had taken the mickey out of him for a week, but his friends didn’t care in the end; Harry was happy, that was what mattered.  
Malfoy— Draco, now— still didn’t like to socialise much, and still sequestered himself in their room much of the time, preferring books to people; Harry didn’t mind, though he did drag the blond out to study with Hermione now and again.  
Towards Easter break, they had sex for the first time; it was gentle and silly and Harry laughed far harder than he should’ve when Draco got so nervous that his lubrication spell missed and hit the window with a squelch. He laughed even harder as Draco tried to clean it up and missed, before hexing Harry out of spite.  
After that, they did some room reconfiguration— they widened Draco’s bed, and transfigured Harry’s into a bookshelf, for the rapidly growing piles of books. Harry liked the opportunity to snuggle, and Draco like alphabetizing.  
As NEWTs grew closer, Draco grew panicked, studying later and later into the night, until Harry had to trick him into taking sleeping draught to get him to take a break; he and Hermione grew friendlier, studying for Ancient Runes and Arithmancy together while their boyfriends dozed due to boredom. Harry, for his part, did study, but he was only taking four NEWTs: Draco was taking seven.  
The night of Draco’s last NEWT, Harry asked him to live with him after Hogwarts. Draco said yes, then let Harry top for the first time.  
Harry still wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted to do, even as Draco got his acceptance letter into Healer Training, and he felt the panic starting to set in.  
It wasn’t until Draco jokingly said he should make a soulmark matching service that it all clicked for him.  
Draco looked at him, joking grin falling into a face of exasperation, “Oh Merlin you’re going to, aren’t you?”  
So Harry started researching soul marks.  
They left Hogwarts for the last time that June, Harry definitely _not_ crying at the final feast, and they moved into their new flat three days later; a cute two bedroom wizarding flat three blocks from St. Mungo’s, with floor to ceiling bookshelves and lots of windows.  
They got a dog, a little german shepherd named Plant (Harry’s impulsive name stuck, it caused quite the row.) They had a garden box on their balcony filled with ginger and pansies.  
A year into Draco’s training, and six months after Harry got his service off the ground, Draco took them back to Hogwarts and proposed in the Great Hall; Harry said yes, and they kissed to the sound of rampant cheers.  
They got married in a field of narcissus and lilies, five years later.

_Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tada! Thank you so much for reading this story-- it was a cute one shot idea that rapidly got bigger, and I actually adore it; two quiet anxious boys bonding over their anxiety is a trope in literature I find endearing and healing. Thank you to s0n-0f-a-snitch on tumblr for babbling with me and helping me figure out how I would make this work, and for all the encouraging, sweet comments people left along the way!


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